Salvage at Steeple Jason by Ed Zaruk (ebook reader that looks like a book .TXT) 📕

toward the freighter. Ross feathered the throttles to compensate.
With the line-throwing gun in his right hand, Ben stood poised for his one chance to send the light nylon rope arcing over the freighter’s deck. Ross fought to keep Southern Tide’s

bow straight, widening the gap. Raising the gun to his shoulder, Ben pulled the trigger. A loud pop was lost to the storm as the shot line curled upward and vanished in the glare of rain and lights. Ben willed it to fall over the freighter’s railing.
Fighting his drift toward the freighter, Ross eased away from the larger ship. Someone, out of sight on the deck above, began pulling in the rope. The tug rose viciously in the oncoming seas, and, defying Ross’ efforts to hold her off, the starboard bow angled into the oncoming sea. The messenger line started uncoiling. Ben watched it uncoil. The last thing he needed now was a snarled wire hanging halfway between the two ships.
A quartering wave broke over the port side. Water, surging across the heeling deck, spilled into Ben’s boots, breaking loose his footing, and once again piling up him against the starboard railing. Behind, the line sprung into a snarl of coils. Young Todd’s job, Ben thought. He should have been out here, soaking wet like the rest of us and watching the wire instead of lying about in a hospital bed, doted on by Fiona. Surely it couldn’t be as exciting as this.
With the line steadily being drawn toward the freighter now snarled in his hands, Ben grabbed the eye, cleared about nine feet of cable and headed for the winch. Karl stood holding the heavy mainline eye in both hands. Another wave broke over the rail, covering them in water. Knocked to his hands and knees, Ben held his breath until its force diminished. Salt water stung his eyes when he looked to find Karl still holding the eye for him.
When Ross noticed the men aboard Maria del Sol

looking down, he glanced back to see his two men struggling in the water surging over the deck. Karl seemed to be yelling at Ben who was struggling to drag the messenger toward the winch.
“The pin’s in my pocket,” Karl yelled as Ben slipped the messenger eye into the shackle. Ben placed Karl’s hand on the line, then whipped off his right-hand glove and reached into Karl’s pocket. Another wave coming over the side caught the snarl of wire, threatening to pull it out of Karl’s hand. Ben shoved home the pin as the wire slipped out of Karl’s grip. Three turns and the pin was home. Karl moved back to the winch controls as tension came on the messenger, tightening the snarled coils into a ball of twisted steel wire.
Ross eased Southern Tide

in front of the freighter, allowing the heavy two-inch cable, now suspended on the light wire, to line up with the freighter’s fairlead.
Despite his best efforts to hold the vessel steady, the distance between both ships continued to grow. The messenger vibrated and sang in the wind, a thin thread of salvation shining in the rain-swept night.
Ross feathered the throttles, knowing the line could break from the strain placed on it by the heavy tow wire, whipping back and possibly fouling the propellers, not to mention losing the freighter on the rocks. Feeling his ship rise and fall with the waves, he watched Karl expertly hold just enough tension on the main winch to keep the cable clear of the stern.
Before the main towline eye disappeared through the freighter’s fairlead, Ben hooked up the gob wire. Karl waited, his back to the storm. High above in the bridge, Southern Tide’s

radio came to life.
“Senor Sterling, the heavy wire is aboard. My men are connecting it at this moment. Please stand by.”
“Roger that, Maria S

,” Ross said, then waited.
Seconds dragged by. “Captain, the line is secure. You may begin the tow.”
“Roger, roger, roger.” Ross fed power to the big diesels, their propellers biting into the raging sea, and Southern Tide

moved away from the freighter’s bow. Karl, feathered the big winch brake, allowing the mainline to run out.
The intercom buzzed. Ross picked it up and listened to Ben’s voice. “It’s a bloody miserable night to be about, governor.”
“Do up the top button on your slicker or you’ll end up with wet boxers.”
“They’re already draining into my boots.”
“We’ll string two-hundred yards of cable, Ben.”
“Right.” The phone went dead.
When Karl wound off the requested length and set the brake, Ross saw the line tighten, adjusted the throttles, and began the business of building forward momentum with the freighter on a short tow. There was plenty of time to pull the vessel across the face of West Jason and into the open sea.
Ben came up the interior companionway, rubbing his wet hair with a towel. “Well there, that should keep the bitch off the rocks.” Ben pointed to the freighter falling astern. “I see you’re not pulling straight out.”
“I don’t think we have the sea room to arrest her drift.”
“So you plan on towing parallel to shore?”
“Well, I’ll place a little angle on it, but I want to get her north of the island and out to sea.”
Ben walked over to the radar and set it for five miles then walked over and laid out Admiralty chart number 2514. What he saw sent shivers up his spine. “You know where we are?”
“West of Jason Cay.”
“Correct. Have you consulted the chart?”
Ross thought a moment. “I’m familiar with it, but haven’t studied it tonight.”
Ben stared at the chart.
Ross looked at his good friend. “What am I missing, Ben?”
“Jason West is just barely on the northwest corner of the chart.”
Ross pictured the Jason Islands in his mind. “Jason West, Jason East, Steeple and Grand Jason. Correct?”
“Ross, it’s not what is east of the Cay that is important. Outside the border someone has pencilled in the words, reef reported to extend northwest by west.”
Ross didn’t need to consult a chart to visualize where the line of submerged rocks ran. It was dead ahead.
If he didn’t turn the tow seaward soon, and the reef was there, he’d tear the freighter’s bottom out. Even Southern Tide

might not clear the rocks in these seas. Ross nudged the throttle open, and with his right hand turned the wheel slightly to port.
Ben touched Ross’ hand briefly. “Easy, a parted wire is of no use.”
Ross returned the throttles to their original position. “Read me some depths, Ben.”
Ben adjusted the echo sounder and watched it for a moment. “Twenty-one metres.”
Looking ahead, all Ross could see through the driving torrent, was blackness. “How far are we from Jason West?”
Ben found it as the radar finished another sweep. “Fourteen-hundred yards, fine to starboard.” That told Ross all he needed to know. He turned the wheel a bit more, knowing the tug, tethered to the freighter, would angle seaward. Somewhere directly ahead, a phantom row of submerged rocks quite possibly barred his path. He was quite prepared to believe Southern Tide

would clear them. As for the freighter, that was a different matter. Probably not, otherwise why the notation pencilled on the chart. He had to assume the reef was there. Sailing straight ahead was out of the question. It remained to be seen whether they could bring the dead ship about in time.
“Radar says we’re moving at a knot, possibly more.”
“Not enough.”
“I agree.”
Ross stole a glance out back. Six-hundred feet astern, her deck lights a dim glow in the storm, followed the Argentine freighter. All those lives hanging upon his decisions. Well, his and Ben’s, for he knew from years together that these decisions were made as a team.
“I do believe we’re making a knot and a half,” Ben said.
“How much sea room?”
“With the wind still pushing her, I’d say he’s down to a kilometre.”
“Five-eights of a mile,” Ross said, holding everything steady. Scanning the sea, he could find no evidence of the reef. “I don’t suppose there were any depths marked on the chart?”
“None, but it has to show up soon.”
Thirty seconds later Ben began reading off the decreasing depth. “Thirteen metres... six and a half. This is it!” Ross sailed on as the ocean floor shallowed. “Six metres. Drop into a deep trough and we’ll bang bottom.”
“Speed?”
“Barely over a knot and a half.”
“Not enough.” Ross held steady.
“Less than six metres, Ross. God, you’re right on top of it.”
Ross waved his concern aside. Southern Tide

continued over the reef.
“Six again. Needn’t remind you, old boy, that freighter draws eight metres. Pull her over these rocks and she’ll draw two less.”
Ross held Southern Tide

straight for another minute.
“Ross, you’re cutting this awfully fine.” Ben said, his voice edged with concern. Rubbing the back of his neck, he stared astern, waiting for Ross to turn seaward. When he did, Ben breathed a sign of relief. Using a combination of Southern Tide’s

pull and the freighter’s momentum, Ross tried to swing both ships clear of the reef.
The bow came around, placing the gob wire under increasing strain. Farther astern, the freighter was slow to respond.
“Southern Tide. Southern Tide

. Answer, por favor.” The Spanish voice was clearly agitated.
Ben took the call. “Southern Tide

here, over.”
“Is Captain Sterling there?”
“He’s listening.”
“Captain, we are in very shallow water. I have only seventeen metres of water.”
Ben held the mike for Ross to speak into. “We’re working you offshore now, but I’m afraid we’re very close to a reef. Come hard to port.” Ross spoke again to the freighter’s master. “You’ll not ground.” He hoped his words would prove true. “What’s your present heading?”
“Three, four, six degrees and slowly bearing west.”
Ross glanced at his compass. Southern Tide

was on three, one, zero, and still coming around. Ross eased out of the turn, if the gob wire were to let go they’d capsize. “We’re pulling your bow west at this moment, keep your rudder hard over.” He glanced at the tow wire disappearing aft through rain and sea spray to the invisible ship. A little voice kept telling him he’d cut it too fine. “You’ll have plenty of ocean beneath you as we come about.”
Ben looked at Ross. “Bloody lie.”
“Señor, we are down to eleven metres. In these seas we could hit the ocean floor.”
Ross snatched up the mike. “Give me your bearing.”
“Three, four, one.”
Ross reached for the throttle.
“Eleven metres.” The master of Maria del Sol

was near hysterical. “I will ground at nine metres.”
Before he could move a throttle, Ben touched Ross’ hand. “Let me.”
Ross withdrew it, not too proud to acknowledge his mate had a finer touch. Never interfering unless he doubted his boss, Ben adjusted the engine speed, both men watched the wire. Motioning Ross